


teething troubles

by dykeula



Series: the art of ghosting [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Slow Burn (Good Omens), Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Character Turned Into a Ghost, Gen, Haunted Houses, Horror Comedy, M/M, Poltergeists, Pre-Slash, ghost au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-30
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:47:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22024327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dykeula/pseuds/dykeula
Summary: There’s a book shop in London that’s haunted. The ghost in question wasn’t that much of a book hoarder, but Lord help anyone who dared to step a foot into that shop with the intention of buying anything. He had an arrangement to uphold for his angelic friend.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: the art of ghosting [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1564474
Comments: 6
Kudos: 81





	1. the raven

There’s a book shop in London that’s haunted. Well, there are quite a many shops in London _believed to be_ haunted, just as a rule. Such was the business with a city as old as theirs. Belief being the key word here. They weren’t actually, but they served as a good fright to ghost fans and sceptics alike, as well as fodder for popular stories. There was only one, exactly the one, book shop in London that actually _was_ haunted, mind you, and quite prominently so.

But for some ungodly reason the unlucky chap that managed to buy the lease, even years upon years later, hadn’t run off yet. No one quite knew why that was. Mr Fell however had very soon found out that if one owned a haunted book shop, business was less than stellar. Which was just how he liked it.

There’s a book shop in London that’s haunted. The ghost in question wasn’t that much of a book hoarder, but Lord help anyone who dared to step a foot into that shop with the intention of buying anything.

\--

It was in the rainy spring of 1854 when the first unknowing, actual costumer had stumbled his way into the shop trying to save himself from an apocalyptic downpouring, the poor bastard. The man didn’t even know what apocalyptic truly was like, a little rain would be the least of his worries at the end of the days.

The man’s name was Stewart Reekey. Stewart wasn’t that big of a reader really, never had been. The only novels he’d devoured had been back in his sailor’s youth, huge bestsellers about the sea and men falling in love with her (occasionally with each other). It was the only entertainment he had back then, stolen from one of his ship mates. Why he had to read about the bloody ocean while he was already sailing _on_ it, he didn’t know.

Suffice it to say, he felt a tad bit like a fish out of water. But that didn’t stop him. “Hello?” he tentatively asked into the vast space. The owner must have been in there somewhere. Maybe he was repainting. The place looked like it could do well with a deep cleanse. He had seen the distinct tell-tale signs of a rodent infection even just with one foot inside the door. The place didn’t look good. “Anybody home?”

He’d seen the sign from outside, the one that was filled to the brim with various times that the shop was closed, more often than not, but the door had been open and well, he’d just assumed… He would be out of the man’s hair in a minute, he just wanted to take shelter from the storm and to maybe purchase something small for his sweetheart. She was the only one in his house that liked to read, and boy did she read. She’d already finished all the novellas he’d given her before marriage, even the penny dreadfuls. She was a special lady, she deserved something special.

He almost went ahead and made a fool out of himself by yelling when noise in the back alerted him to another human being. Or, he hoped it was a human being. No rat could make that kind of loud noise, no matter how big it grew. “Just a minute!” someone yelled back. Definitely a human, and most definitely a man. Stewart sighed in relief. If he’d gotten no answer, he would’ve left to fend off the storm all on his own and he really didn’t feel like getting his socks all wet this particular day. “I’ll be with you in a minute.”

“Oh, that’s alright,” Stewart replied, already scanning the deftly stacked bookshops for something useful. “I’m in no hurry. The weather’s frightful outside.”

He wasn’t sure, but Stewart could swear on his mother’s grave that he’d heard a snickering next to him and an ominous breath on his neck. He spun around like he’d seen a ghost (which he would have, if he had the sight, for Crowley was hovering metres away from him, looking very grumpy, like he’d just woken up from a nap – which he had), but there was nothing there. Well, nothing to see. Nothing but books. “What the-“ he whispered, confused.

“Gabriel, to what do I owe the- Oh.” The man that made his way out of the carnage that was the back of the shop looked to be in his 40’s, hair a mess, in a cream coloured suit. Just like Stewart imagined a bookshop owner to look. He seemed startled. “Who are you?”

Not the answer he usually received if he entered a shop. Did he truly look that out of place? “I’m uhhh… Stewart. Looking to purchase a book. Are you Mr Fell?”

Mr Fell nodded his affirmation and oddly enough, clenched his fist and jaw together like Stewart’d just asked for his daughter’s hand in marriage. Like he’d just tasted an extremely sour lemon. Stewart was confused. The breath on his neck was back, it made his hairs stand on edge, but he supressed the urge to look behind him. He knew that there was nothing there. Just the wind. He mustn’t be spooked, he’d seen worse frights at sea. Mates had spun enough horror tales for him. He hadn’t believed any of it.

“I am. Mr… Fell. Yep. That’s me,” Mr Fell said, nervously standing up on his tip toes and clacking the heels of his feet together. He looked to Stewart’s right as if there was something or someone there which startled him further. Was he missing something? What had he just walked into? The man looked to be conversing with the air under his breath, just for a second, before he turned to look at his customer again. “But we don’t sell… books here. So sorry.”

Stewart looked around himself. “This is a bookshop. Isn’t that what you fellas do? Make me overpriced offers on a handful of paper?”

Mr Fell squinted his eyes in suspicion. “You’re not from around here, are ya?” Stewart was almost insulted to be spoken to like this, and he would have reiterated that _no_ , he wasn’t, but what did it _matter_. But the man didn’t leave him a chance to get a word in before he continued. “If you were local, you’d know that these books are not for sale.”

That deflated him somewhat. “Oh,” he said, defeated. There were rain droplets hanging on to hair that were falling onto the wooden floor with his every movement. “Apologies, then. Didn’t mean to inconvenience you in… whatever it is you do. Just wanted something for my love at home. Have a good day.” He made to turn back around but a hand in the air stopped him.

Mr Fell swore under his breath, in a language Stewart had never heard before but could tell was most likely profanity. He looked to be battling with himself, fidgeting with his hands and there he went looking to the man’s side again. What the hell was there?

“Do I have a spider on my shoulder or summat?” he meant to ask just as Mr Fell interrupted him and said, cautiously “You have a … love at home?”

The way he said it like it was the most wondrous thing in the world made Stewart feel warm all of a sudden. He could’ve sworn he also heard an exaggerated sigh and a _“Are you kidding me?”_ but he had been looking at the book shelves again, so he wasn’t sure if it had come from Mr Fell or someone outside. Surely must’ve come from the window, so he paid it no mind. His eyes were scanning the books for one author in particular. “I do,” he said as he turned back around, couldn’t help but smile brightly at even just the thought of her. “My Amelia. We married in the winter. My sweetheart, she’s waiting for me at home. Most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes upon.” It was true. He’d never loved another. The thought had never even crossed his mind, even while he was out at sea with other sailors and alone with his needs. She was that mesmerizing.

Mr Fell smiled, clearly heard the care and love in his words. “Tell me about her.” Another sigh as well as an annoyed grunt came from the window, which Mr Fell apparently heard as well. He just hissed at the offending noise in question. “ _Shhh_ , quiet.”

“Me?” Stewart was receiving mixed signals here.

Mr Fell shook his head fervently. “No, not you. Just… the wood. It’s creaky in here, heh,” he said as he stomped on the ground to emphasize his point. “Makes me feel as if I’m talking to an old friend.” Stewart didn’t think the creak the wood made sounded like a human’s voice, but what did he know? He wasn’t an expert. Wasn’t an expert in anything, really. “Anyway, as I was saying,” Mr Fell went on, “Human love fascinates me, its machinations and complexions and sacrifices.”

Stewart furrowed his brow. “ _Human love?_ Wouldn’t you say just … love?” Was the man assuming that animals could love as fiercely as humans could? Stewart had to digress.

“Yes, exactly that! I love love. Adore it. Now, won’t you tell me a tale or two?”

Both of them could hear another sigh as well as a loud knock on a wall but blamed it on the wind. Stewart could swear he felt a hot breath of _something_ on his cheek. It unnerved him.

“ _Stop!_ ” Mr Fell yelled, clearly annoyed, but backtracked when he was met with his customer’s confused visage. “Stop… just standing there. You must be tired. Here, I’ll fetch you something.”

“Oh,” Stewart replied, dumbfounded. “Uhh… thanks. That’s nice of ya.”

And that was exactly what he’d done - told a tale, one involving his wife and himself, how they met. What had drawn him to her, and her to him. It was mundane really, but Mr Fell was listening avidly and hanging onto his every word as if it was the most beautiful story he’d ever heard. It made Stewart feel special to charm a man like this. The offered chair, all comfortable and soft, was very welcome as well. His knees were sore and soon enough so was his tongue.

He’d even talked about his wife’s love for the macabre, that she’d recently read Frankenstein and just fell in love with the concept of monsters. Amelia loved monsters and Stewart loved Amelia. It was as simple as that.

“It’s why I stumbled into your shop in the first place,” he admitted, long after the storm outside had calmed down. He could still hear an occasional _tap tap tap_ on the window from time to time, although to him it seemed to come from somewhere in the shop instead. Maybe it was the wood settling. “But I’m clueless as a baby when it comes to books. I haven’t got the slightest idea what I might buy for her to enjoy.”

Mr Fell seemed to be in deep thought before he’d remembered and then jumped up from his comfortable position on his armchair. “Ahh, I’ve got just the thing!” he exclaimed, excited. The man was quite eccentric. Stewart wondered briefly if he was alright in the head.

The man came back a second later, not a hair out of place, book in hand. He must not have searched too hard. Stewart recognized the author of the book but barely. He was sceptic. “Poe?”

“One of the very finest! It’s a short story collection of his I purchased a long time ago. Hand signed.” Mr Fell opened the book to its first page, inside it read _‘To my dear Aziraphale. Evermore your friend, Edgar’._ “I have more copies, don’t worry.”

Stewart lifted his brow ever so slightly. “Aziraphale?” he asked. That must not be a real name.

Mr Fell chuckled. “Given to me by my mother.” Ah. That would do the trick. Mothers were funny like that.

“I understand,” Steward said. “My ma wanted to name me Bernhard. She thought it sounded mysterious.” He chuckled, looked back at the book. “But Poe? I don’t know, I reckon he seemed a bit… too queer for my tastes.”

Mr Fell looked confused. “How do you mean?”

Stewart shrugged. “All his stories are so strange and… well, queer. Who knows what the bloke was up to when he was alive? All sorts of devious sinful activities?” He was only half kidding. Poe did freak him out.

_“Poe is a master of his art, you absolute imbecile!”_

Stewart must not have heard that right. He couldn’t have. He’d been standing a few feet away from Mr Fell and hadn’t even seen his lips move, and yet. He’d heard the insult clear as day. “Pardon, what was that?”

“I said,” Mr Fell coughed, raising his voice quite a bit. “That Mr Poe was a wonderful storyteller and was not… an imbecile, as some may believe. He was quite an extraordinary man.”

“Oh,” Stewart said, shrugged and took the book Mr Fell so generously extended his way. “Well, in that case. How much?”

Mr Fell smiled as he ushered him out of the door hurriedly. “On the house,” he said just as a clash could be heard behind them. He seemed in a hurry to get back to whatever he was doing before Stewart’d walked in. He briefly wondered if Mr Fell had any cats. “Please give my best regards to your sweetheart at home and be well.”

“But I-“ Stewart didn’t know what we wanted to retort. This all seemed a bit rushed, this.

“Goodbye!”

Just as soon as the door had closed on his very first costumer another face appeared from the mist, this one much angrier than the former. “On the house?” Crowley asked while he floated in Aziraphale’s vision, arms crossed. “ _On the house??_ On that uncultured swine?”

Aziraphale didn’t pay him no mind, choosing instead to take care of the two chairs standing in the room aimlessly. He looked saddened to see such a book of his go, but what was done was done. “I didn’t know you read,” he remarked instead of answering the question. Crowley was a notorious book hater, he’d been an adamant critic since 1849, when the two of them met. Or well, when Crowley crashed into him at ghostly superspeed and then threatened to stab his left eyeball. Semantics.

If his friend were alive, Aziraphale was sure he would have blushed. As it was, he could only imagine. Crowley did look a little sheepish at being found out, though. He flung his hands in the air, levitating even higher for the dramatics. Anything for the dramatics. “How the hell else am I supposed to spend my days with you out miracle-ing away or whatever else it is you do in the dead of night? And I still don’t like to read. It’s just … I can appreciate a good ghost story.”

Aziraphale smiled. He could see that there was more to it than the possible presentation in the stories but chose not to prompt his friend further. “Of course, dear. And you make it seem like I work in shady business.”

Crowley arched his slender brows. “With the ethics I see being enforced in the bible from Your People? Could be. What sanctimonious God sends her principality to wipe out entire cities? Shady. Think of the babies caught in the crossfire.”

Aziraphale scolded his friend after putting the chairs back where they belonged. He was being dramatic, although he did have a point. Aziraphale had never much liked that part of his job. Sodom, the arch, all that. “Don’t call the Almighty shady, Crowley. Her plan is…”

“Don’t say it, don’t you say it!”

“… Ineffable.”

Crowley groaned loudly and floated away, doing a spin in the air before stopping short next to a book shelf filled with romance novels. Who knew? Maybe Crowley was a Jane Austen fan. It would certainly suit him. “Idiotic more like,” he muttered under his breath, not that Crowley had any. “Why that man?”

Aziraphale shrugged, suddenly feeling shy. “I don’t know. He seemed nice enough. And he had a sweetheart at home.” Quickly, way too quickly, he added: “I have that too, you know.”

Aziraphale just barely dodged out of the way of the oncoming candle being hauled his way. The wax split in two at impact with the wall. He’d expected that. Maybe it was part of the reason why he’d said it in the first place. “Don’t you _dare!_ ” Crowley said enraged as if he’d just been terribly mortally insulted. Maybe he had. Aziraphale knew his friend detested being seen as ‘nice’, even if he was. It seemed that even in life his friend had denied ever having a selfless bone in his body and the tradition carried over to his after life as well. His not so friendly ghost was hovering up and down, like a ball, or a bee, buzzing with anger. “Don’t you call me sw-“ He shuddered at the mere thought, as if he’d threatened to vomit. “You have a _nuisance_ at home and that’s that.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes fondly at the theatrics of it all, though he did it in secret with one of his true form’s eyes. He had many of those. Truth be told, Crowley could be incredibly helpful. Quite frankly a nice housemate to have. He would recommend it to absolutely everyone to have a ghost haunt one’s home. “Yes, dear,” he just replied and with a move of his hand had cleaned up the waxy mess on the floor. Not that that improved their home any, neither of them had felt the need to renovate in the last few years.

“Have you forgotten our arrangement?”

“Of course not.”

The arrangement. The one they’d made back when they first started conversing like this. You see, Aziraphale hated customers. He loved owning books and detested to see them let go, so he’d made a truce with Crowley. He was free to haunt any and all willing potential buyers so long as he didn’t seriously injure any of them. In turn, séances were alright every once in a while, even if Aziraphale despised them. It all seemed incredibly… inappropriate to him. Crowley loved tricking people however, so he let him have at it. Crowley also had been adamant about a clause in their arrangement that ensured the rats would not be harmed, even if they chewed on the books from time to time. It was Crowley’s job to keep them in line and to dispose of ones who thought they were above the law. So long as Aziraphale didn’t have to see any of them take a dive into one of his teas or defecate one of his books, he was alright with that. It’d been smooth sailing so far, with occasional bumps in the road. _That_ arrangement.

He went to his friend, tried to reassuringly put his hand on his shoulder only to stop short a few metres away from him. Years and he still hadn’t learned his lesson. It wasn’t his fault though. Crowley just seemed so … lively. He coughed and tried to look reassuring, looked at Crowley’s pouting form. “Don’t worry, dear. You’ll have plenty of other costumers to terrorize from this point forward, I promise you. Your haunting will want for nothing.”

Turns out, he had been sort of right about that one.


	2. iliad

The potential for mischief came sooner rather than later. It always did. On a more sinister occasion, a few years later, it came in the form of a very rude gentleman that Aziraphale quite frankly couldn’t even remember the name of and didn’t want to know anyway. He’d just called him James, just because.

James walked into the shop like he owned the grounds. James acquired antique books about Greek mythology. He was a scholar, evidently, most likely employed in some sort of University. James believed any and all peasants were beneath him, especially ones with “atrocious looking hair” as he so lovingly had put it. Aziraphale didn’t like James one bit, and he tended to enjoy the overwhelming majority of humans well enough. Not this one. Oh, no.

“I’ve told you-“

“Yes and _I_ have told _you_ that I simply must insist,” the man pressured him, eyeing a specific book on Aziraphale’s counter. Aziraphale felt so nervous he was particularly sweating. “I know this is a first edition.” He loved that book about Greek Gods. Loved it. He’d bought it back when it’d been written, centuries ago. The author… had been a friend, for a while. A dear companion. There was simply no conceivable way that he would ever give it up. Which was how Crowley got into play.

Aziraphale stepped away from the counter and flexed his fingers. He was trying to locate his friend, however far or near he had dozed off to. Crowley was here alright, he could feel his presence like a bright spot in his peripheral field of vision. His spirit was like a beacon, it called to Aziraphale like no other. “Yes well,” Aziraphale uttered, louder than his conversational partner. **_Wake up._** “If you insist. But first I have to, no, I must tell you…”

James seemed intrigued. “Tell me what?” He wasn’t yet frightened. That would soon change.

Aziraphale swallowed in apparent nervousness, mentally still trying to reach his friend. “I must tell you… of the _curse_ that has befallen this very book.”

**_Wake up, damn it. I need you. It is urgent._ **

Just as James laughed it off with a “What nonsense” Aziraphale received an answer to his more pressing matter. Crowley had heard him, from wherever he drifted off to during his ‘naps’. He wasn’t certain he wanted to know. What Crowley did during his free time was his business and his business alone, just as he had never asked Aziraphale about any of his daily excursions. Well, he did. But in a respectful manner – as respectful as Crowley could be, of course. Which wasn’t that much in the first place.

_HmMMmMmmM?_

Crowley sounded and felt sleep trodden, like he’d just woken him up from a particular deep slumber. This telepathic communication was relatively new, they’d found out about it when Aziraphale hadn’t seen Crowley re-emerge for over a week and in his frantic panic had done all he thought he could do, in fear of losing his friend: He reached out to him telepathically. Back then his attempt had been… a little too loud and shrill. So in the end Crowley had been rather rudely woken up by a seemingly feral angel _screaming_ into his subconscious with all the willpower he could muster. Suffice to say, the house meeting that inevitably took place after that ended up being rather heated. Crowley had complained that his head felt like “shat out rat entrails” after that screaming match. Aziraphale still didn’t know what he’d meant by that, but he was more careful now. And these days, Crowley even answered back. Usually. If he was able to. It was never quite as loud and as central sounding as Aziraphale’s way of messaging, but it worked just fine.

He hadn’t seen his friend in over two weeks, maybe he’d just simply dreamed something beautiful. A meadow field with flowers everywhere, or swimming in a vast ocean with dazzling creatures and lights glinting off of the surface. Who knew? He’d never asked. He wasn’t at liberty to start now.

**_You’re being needed. Customer._ **

He could practically feel the laughter Crowley send his way, could feel it vibrating inside his chest. He’d assumed it was something more important than that, but to Aziraphale this _was_ important. His books were his whole life.

_You’re simply useless without me, aren’t you? You could have just told them no. But alright, alright, let me dust off my eyes before I give your pal a good scare._

Aziraphale sighed in relief. He hadn’t noticed said pal, James, looking at him intensely and waving a hand in front of his face. “Heeello?” he asked, his voice annoying enough to Aziraphale. “Are you quite alright in the head? I swear you just dozed off for minutes there.”

Aziraphale waved the intruding hands away and smiled with all the barely concealed venom he could muster. Normally he felt bad for the poor bastards wandering into his shop. Not this one. “Apologies,” he said without meaning it one bit, “I was simply lost in the horror that befell the original owner of that book.”

James arched his expressive blonde eyebrows. “You must have stored one too many gothic books inside that noggin.”

Aziraphale feverishly shook his head, trying to sell the story. “Oh no, this one is true. Trust me. The most gruesome ones always are. You see, all the owners of this book have a habit of dying tragically.”

The man in front of him clearly didn’t believe in ghosts or curses or any of the like. Behind him, Aziraphale could feel his spirit housemate coming to not-life, stretching his phantom limbs experimentally. “You’re obviously alive, so your facts must be skewed.” Crowley tilted his head to the side.

_Who’s this prick?_

“Yes, but I don’t own it,” Aziraphale assured him. He could see Crowley make his way to his victim, levitating around the room like the natural that he was. It really was quite a beautiful sight, the way his feet didn’t even move or have to touch the ground. “I simply sell it. Business, you see. Rental.”

“Hmm,” James replied, obviously still not impressed. He obnoxiously straightened his over coat. Everything this man did he did obnoxiously. “Well, out with it then. What happened to the previous owner?”

Aziraphale stammered. He hadn’t thought that far ahead and now he was panicking. Behind the man, Crowley was floating nearby and motioning the act of cutting his own arms off with his hand as a razor, all with dramatic pained facial expressions and the theatrical act of fake dying. It all looked very dreadful. That had to be enough.

“His… limbs…,” Aziraphale swallowed, “All his arms and legs just seemed to have fallen off on their own accord. The doctors, they… couldn’t help, couldn’t explain the phenomena. And after he was driven insane with it, with being this… limbless being.” To Aziraphale it sure sounded frightening. Crowley enthusiastically gave him a thumbs up.

James was back to rolling his eyes, as he so often did. Aziraphale hoped they stayed that way one of these days. “So let me guess if I’ve got this story correct: the previous owner, poor sod, hands or rather sends you the book with an added note that it’s haunted and to never sell it to another living soul. Does that sound about right?”

Aziraphale nodded dumbly. He’d gotten quite excited to tell that story himself. “Yes, that’s right.”

“Excuse the profanity, but do you think I’m bloody stupid?” The aggressive tone change surprised him. Aziraphale blinked, flabbergasted. “I’ve heard about you and your shop, Mr Fell. Know about the lore attached to this place. I’m not scared of children’s stories that are to be shared in the dead of night with candles burning, not in a professional context.”

“But…” He didn’t know what he wanted to say, but he felt like objecting. This wasn’t trivial, not at all.

Behind James he could see Crowley’s eyebrows lifting so far up his forehead they almost reached his hairline. He regarded the man with a mix of apprehension and disgust. “ _Children’s stories?_ ” he spat out.

James seemed to ignore both of them, too occupied with taking a hold of the book again. “If you’ll excuse me,” He’d pulled out his wallet, fished around in it for the appropriate amount of money and then placed 500 pounds on the counter. Aziraphale’s eyes must be deceiving him – 500 quid? This man could not be serious.

“You’re not serious,” Aziraphale said in disbelief. Crowley also seemed to be at a loss for words, eyeing the money with his eyes open a comedic amount.

_He’s not serious._

“Oh quite, I’m afraid,” James said and smirked, taking Aziraphale’s quiet disbelief for compliance. It wasn’t. “That is my final offer, take it or leave it. But I _will_ leave here today with that book.” His words sounded deafeningly final. Aziraphale could see that Crowley was clearly thinking the offer over in his mind, even after Aziraphale had squinted at him in disapproval. Crowley just shrugged.

_That’s a lot of money. Imagine all the wine we could be indulging in. High quality. Hmm. Delicious._

Aziraphale scoffed at him. James made his way to leave and he was panicking. **_You can’t be serious. And our arrangement?_**

_Has leeway._

**_Not with this book, you bloody reneger. It’s dear to me. Crowley, please, I knew the author. It has emotional value, and certainly not to this bastard._ **

Crowley looked at him strangely, as if there was something in his face. He squinted at him, clearly waiting for something. _Did you have an affair with the author? Is that it?_

Aziraphale gasped exaggeratedly and exclaimed “None of your business.” Before he could stop himself.

James stopped in his way out of the door and looked back up at him in confusion. “Pardon?”

He was willing to try everything. “Oh I simply asked if you would like to see another published book from the same author I have stored in the back room?” He asked in obvious faux excitement. “It’s from a different time period, good as new. About an odyssey?”

James looked at him as if he belonged in a madhouse, the book carelessly held with his right hand. “… No, thank you,” he replied at last. “I think I would like to go resume my day now, if you don’t mind.”

“Oh, no, no, not at all!” He said and chuckled nervously. He was using his hand to gesture way too much while he talked. “Be well, sir, and have a good day.”

While he did that, he stared daggers at his ghastly friend in the back who still hadn’t moved an inch. **_Crowley, I swear I will buy you as much and as many bottles of red wine as you can stomach to drink for your entire afterlife. I will miracle us Chardonnay and the best Bordeaux all the way from France! If you stop that man. I will never, ever complain about another séance meeting in my book shop. But not if that book leaves here. Pretty, please. I need a competent ghost for this._**

Crowley took the thinly veiled threat and compliment for what it was, the plea of a desperate man at his wit’s end and smiled. He winked at him, then acted like he was spitting into his hands and rubbing them together before he closed his eyes and let his form dissipate into fog. _I’ll hold you to that promise, angel._ Aziraphale could scream.

“Crowley,” he muttered. James still looked at him like he was crazy, still hadn’t moved an inch. For a moment all was silent, deadly silent. Like the calm before a particular bad storm. But then all hell broke loose.

The bookshelves started aggressively rattling first. Quiet at first, then louder and louder. It was a loud harrowing sound that shook the entire shop from the ground up. Aziraphale breathed a sigh of relief.

“What on Earth“ James asked, thankfully making his way away from the door in favour of standing right next to the nearest wall, alarmed.

“Oh. Oh, no,” Aziraphale overstatedly muttered when in actuality he’d been meaning to say quite the opposite of ‘Oh, thank god. Thank you’. “It’s _him_.” He voluntarily shuddered at that last word.

“It’s an earthquake,” James replied, clearly annoyed but still not frightened out of his skin. He would be.

The rattling grew louder, books started toppling and falling onto the floor, albeit a little too gently for the actual commotion. Aziraphale let it slide, just this once. He appreciated his friend at least trying to take care of his property somewhat.

Behind one of the shelves a swarm of rats appeared. At first it was just one, a small frightened specimen, shrieking and running out of the shadows and into the refuge of the open door. James truly screamed at that, apparently squeamish with vermin. Who knew? But it ended up being not only one rat, no, it was a whole crowd of them. All woken up from their nocturnal sleeping habits and transported into motion by sheer terror. It was quite a show, Aziraphale had to admit. It reminded him of the flood, back when Noah had built his arch.

After the last rat escaped, the door mysteriously slammed and locked shut. James screamed at that again, barely audible over the chaos engulfing them. “WHAT,” he yelled, sweat running down his forehead, “IS HAPPENING?”

_“UuuUUUUuUUUuuuuUUUUUUUUUUUUUuURURRRRRRRUUGHGHHHHRGGGGGHGHGGG”_

It sounded like the final dying breath of a very seriously injured older man. Aziraphale had missed Crowley’s fable for the dramatics.

“WHAT IS THAT, MR FELL?” James looked as if he would pass out any minute, although still trying to act composed. “Is this a _joke?_ ”

Aziraphale just shrugged sadly, defeated. “I tried to tell you,” he murmured. He really had.

The next words being spoken were loud and harrowing and engulfed the entire house, so it was not tangible where it had originally come from.

_“WHERE’S”_

_“MY”_

_“BOOOoOoooooOOoOOOOOOOooOOOOOOOOOOOoOoOoKK”_

Behind them, the sound of something wet hitting the wood floor. A wet mess flew in their direction and just barely missed them, landing somewhere in the darkness. Aziraphale could tell that it was alive though, so clearly a rodent. As soon as it landed it shook its small body, sprinkled off the water and ran away. Had Crowley dipped rats in water? Holding on to so small a creature with telekinetic powers required extraordinary willpower, he was impressed. James whimpered pathetically. Aziraphale meanwhile had to supress his proud smile.

“My _arms_!” Crowley screeched in the perfect manner of an old corpse. “ _Who_ stole my arms?!” Shuffling was heard, and frankly Aziraphale had no idea how he managed it, but it sounded to him an awful lot like a body slouching it way towards them. There was more rattling, as well as the creepy sound of pained wet breathing. It was all rapidly closing in on them.

“Alright,” James breathed out, letting the book fall in his carelessness. He had already forgotten about it it seemed, dramatically stomping and huffing back towards the desk to retrieve his money. “Forget it. I will find it somewhere else.”

Aziraphale looked at him innocently. “Are you sure?” He was gleefully observing all this.

“Yes, yes, bloody hell, yes,” James screamed as he hurriedly walked towards the door and tried desperately to pry it open with his bare hands. It wouldn’t budge. “The deal is off. Let. Me. _Out_.”

Aziraphale looked at the struggling man on his doorstep, saw his panicked expression and haunted eyes. Saw the sweat stains marking his otherwise perfectly tailored suit, saw the various strands of hair that had fallen into his face. All results of the last ten minutes.

He then chanced a look into the darkness and looked deep into what we knew lurked there, the deep black _inside_ the darkness. He found what he was looking for and smiled. Aziraphale’s gaze could not be mistaken for anything other than warm fondness as he looked the so-called monster into the eyes and mouthed “Thank you” at him. The monster, hiding in the shadows and being nothing more but mist and fog in the vague shape of a man, saw this and smiled back. It all seemed incredibly romantic, as well as intimate.

“Alright,” Aziraphale sighed, still smiling at the shadows. Almost automatically and out of politeness’ sake, he added: “Have a wonderful day.” Just as the door miraculously unworked itself and clacked open with a harrow sound. The human clawing at it before was now desperately dashing away and into the warmth of the midday sun and the street like a scared rabbit. And then he was gone.

“Please visit our shop again next time. Be sure to tell your colleagues of our service.”


	3. book of revelation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year!

The next time Gabriel decided to pay his colleague a visit, Aziraphale had also not been warned beforehand. Typical angel business. They never bloody knocked. Even when he’d been non corporal and living in the shacks with the other principalities, waiting for the Big Bang to signal their turn of the shift, no one had ever seen any need for privacy. It was one of the most valuable things about life on Earth, however. People respected one another, however little that respect truly was. If there was a closed door, one tended to knock. Not Gabriel.

Which was why when Gabriel visited him next, almost at the eve of the old and dawning of a new century (which the humans funnily enough hadn’t yet realized), Aziraphale had spent the entire day not following even one of his duties but instead had elected to go on a little shopping spree. He had come back from Oxford Street with a quite frankly obscene amount of alcohol, some for Crowley, some for him. To welcome the, oh which time was it? The 20th century? Something like that.

He hadn’t seen his friend in well… in quite a while. Not since that rather disastrous séance he’d so rudely interrupted 2 weeks ago. Not even his stuttered “Oh gosh jolly, don’t mind me”’s or “I’m so sorry”’s had been able to soothe Crowley’s understandable anger at being interrupted. Séances weren’t really on everyone’s minds these days. He had been possessing a medium rather mildly, and before Aziraphale had unlocked his door he’d heard the thrilling tale of two dead sisters who’d been lost at sea and whose diaries had been stashed in the book store? He wasn’t sure, but it sounded terribly exciting. Crowley was quite the storyteller.

“ _Angel_ ,” Crowley in the woman’s body (she’d been in her 40’s, with a soft figure and decorative headwear) had hissed, momentarily forgetting their audience. It had been just two couples of newlyweds who’d been looking for a thrill where nothing else satisfied them, it seemed. “I’m in the middle of _something!_ ” That something being scamming people. Never for their money, Crowley had neither pockets nor a bank account to store it, he was living on the expense of Aziraphale’s money, but scamming nonetheless.

The thrill seekers had seemed alarmed, not keen on witnessing a lover’s quarrel so early in their own marriage. “Uhh, Mistress Dunkelheit? Is this your husband?”

Crowley had paid them no mind. His currently female visage had looked ready to brew up a storm, though Aziraphale could very clearly see the lines of where the Mistress ended and Crowley began. He had been only half heartedly using her, more so just gently moving her body and filling her mouth with his words instead of full on possession. Aziraphale knew that Crowley wasn’t a fan of possession, avoided it if possible. Why, he didn’t know. “I told you,” he’d hissed under his breath, aware that Aziraphale with his hyper senses could hear crickets chirping from miles away. “To make yourself scarce until 10pm.”

Aziraphale had squinted his eyes and dusted off his coat, already attempting to pull off his shoes. Crowley’s stern look had stopped him. “10? Is that what we agreed upon?” He’d remembered it differently somehow. “Oh dear, I must have misremembered.” Now that he’d been there, he hadn’t particularly felt like leaving again. Besides, he’d never been the witness of a séance, not in the traditional sense. “What are you fellas up to?”

One of the nice chaps had wanted to answer him, but Crowley’s stormy eyes and his angry command had shushed him. Crowley was always so authoritative during these moments. “Nothing you can be witness to,” he’d snapped, adjusting his corset and had given Aziraphale another one of those _looks_. Code for _‘Get lost’_. Aziraphale had heard loud and clear, so he’d stopped untying his laces, excused himself from the fine gentlemen and ladies present, and then had dashed back into the night like Crowley had lit a fire under his buttocks. It’d felt like he had.

He hadn’t seen him since. Secretly he hoped that the new years eve would be a great opportunity to apologize, as well as consume copious amounts of alcohol. Which he was currently transporting with heavy bags into his bookshop. Inside he could feel the presence of another being, though it felt too powerful to belong to a human. Aziraphale’s entire mood picked up considerably, as it always did when the prospect of talking to Crowley was on the table.

He somehow managed to open his door with his shoulder and said “You won’t believe what I-“ only to stop short when he saw who it really was. Gabriel. Oh.

“Aziraphale, friend!”

“Oh.” He felt like a fool, standing there with his bags full of cheese and wine and various other sins. Seeming so incredibly human. “Hello, Gabriel.”

Gabriel’s disturbing purple eyes glinted in delight. That never was a good thing. “Did I interrupt something? Were you expecting someone else?”

Aziraphale shook his head feverishly and let his bags drop next to the door. Thankfully, nothing broke or fell over. “Oh, oh no,” he redacted and chuckled. Tell-tale sign that he was nervous and if Crowley were here, he would’ve called him out on it. He secretly sent out a prayer that said spirit didn’t feel like materializing while Gabriel was here. That spelt trouble. “I often talk to myself when at home. You know, because I don’t have any friends.” _Nope, nada, none. A total amount of zero friends. Especially not ghoulish ones who could be hiding in the floorboards and laughing at me right this second. Just me, myself and I._

Gabriel nodded. He had a book in hand but was hardly paying attention to it. It looked to be one from the romance section. “I heard that can be quite healthy for loners such as yourself,” he replied, smiling. Every comment of his always felt to him like an insult, but he let it slide without any warfare. This was his superior, an archangel. It was an honour for him to pay a foot soldier like Aziraphale a visit. “Never mind, I just came here to check up on you. I heard some concerning rumours…” He looked deep in thought, looking around the room and sniffing as if he could smell all of Aziraphale’s secrets in between the pieces of paper.

Aziraphale swallowed thickly. “Rumours?” His mind went to Crowley inconspicuously. What had he done?

Gabriel just gave him one of those _looks_. “This is your home, correct? You live here alone?”

 _Oh, bullocks._ “Yes…,” Aziraphale said. You know, like a liar.

Gabriel circled him like a cat would a frightened bird. Or maybe just like a boss did to his employee. “You don’t happen to have dabbled in the occult, have you, Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale’s eyes were as big as his head. “Occult? No, never. I would never. Pfff, I mean, I’m an angel, who would-“

“I know, it’s blasphemous,” Gabriel interrupted him rudely and waved his hand around as if to clear the air. “It’s just, one of our informants had heard of this book shop in Soho that’s been rumoured to be haunted and that the local Satanists and damned like to visit to… worship their dark master, I suppose. Dark crystals. Holding hands, talking to ghosts. The whole shebang.” Gabriel looked as if he was going to be sick. “Disgusting sinners. And I just thought, _Oh? Book shop? Soho? I do hope our dear Aziraphale isn’t involved, is he?”_ His concern sounded pathetically fake, even to his own ears most likely.

Aziraphale meanwhile was acutely aware of the hardwood Ouija board he’d stored in the back of the store, the one Crowley liked to use from time to time and that Aziraphale had begrudgingly bought him. With his own money. He’d financed it. Shit.

“Never heard of it,” Aziraphale lied, trying to make himself look relaxed by leaning on one of the walls. It obviously didn’t work. “But… is it really so impious? Isn’t it just trying to contact spirits? Games?”

Gabriel looked at him in disbelief. “That is exactly why! Spirits! One of the lowliest forms on this earth! Slimier than worms!” The way he’d said it, with such hate in his tone, it scared Aziraphale. He briefly thought _‘Crowley, don’t you dare come out right now wherever you are’_ into the universe. “I don’t know which idiot this part of the globe decided to tinkle with that, but it’s… it turns my stomach.”

“But…,” Aziraphale didn’t know what to make of this. He’d apparently skipped that lesson about Poltergeists back in heaven. “Aren’t ghosts just the souls of humans who have been wronged?” What was so bad about that? Weren’t all ghosts victims in the end?

“ _No!_ ” Gabriel regarded him with a look that very clearly read ‘are you insane’. “They’re ignorant buggers that thought they deserved a second go even while their chances were up. Spirits are imposters. They turned their backs on heavenly rule and decided for themselves that they would rather stay in this rotten world than to live peacefully in heaven, or hell.” He shuddered. “To defile God’s wishes like that… Could you even imagine? Having that amount of maniacal ego?”

“No,” Aziraphale said. He could. He saw one such an ego quite often.

Gabriel just shrugged his enormous shoulders. He was wearing a white silk scarf that looked soft to the touch. Aziraphale admired his superior’s fashion senses. “But it doesn’t matter anymore, whether they were good or not,” he said with a sly smile, clearly proud of himself. “After that clear disobedience, every soul’s next stop is going straight downstairs, if you know what I mean. Better to crush them like the insects they are, it’s our duty after all. After that, the demons and their soul racks can have at them.” He laughed warmly, to him the thought of torturing souls was apparently amusing. Now it was Aziraphale’s stomach that was turning.

“Yes, well… Forgiveness…” He tried again, desperately trying to defend his friend.

“Is a word on a page Aziraphale. Anyhow, I just popped in to see if your shop truly was, you know, haunted. I know you’re not familiar with those things, maybe one might have slipped your notice. But besides a few thousands rats, I can’t really… _feel_ anything out of the ordinary. At least not in any concrete, probable sense.” His demeanour changed abruptly, as if a switch had been flicked inside him. “Can you?”

“I haven’t the foggiest.” Aziraphale very obviously couldn’t.

Gabriel had left soon after that. But his touch had lingered on, his earlier presence had seemed to pollute the air and sour Aziraphale’s entire morning. Before he’d left, he’d even muttered something about the Big Plan. Aziraphale didn’t know what to make of it. Crowley. The Apocalypse. All of it.

He was starting to appreciate, and even crave, Crowley’s habit of just vanishing out of existence for a little while. It would do him good right about now.

\--

There was something wrong with Aziraphale. He’d been moody all evening, which usually was Crowley’s job. Very rarely did their roles reverse and every time Crowley felt a little out of place. He wasn’t a very good comforter. But what he was good at was this: Drinking. Which he and Aziraphale decided to do that evening, to celebrate the dawning of a new year. They’d started even before the bells were officially ringing.

Crowley was currently taking another refill of his, while Aziraphale was sitting on the comfortable couch in their back room, nibbling on a piece of Gouda. He didn’t look happy. Things truly were in disarray when the angel wasn’t happy eating. Truth was, Crowley admired him for it. Both of them were supernatural creatures, yet only one of them truly bore the grunt of the life. Existence as an angel to Crowley just seemed to be full of the same human treasures without any of the tribulations. Eat, drink, party, shag whoever. Live to your heart’s desire. Meanwhile Crowley had to go to humiliating lengths to even just get drunk. He had to possess some poor bloke just to set one foot outside the door.

“I will never get used to this,” Aziraphale slurred slightly from his position, watching his friend dip his finger into a glass of Bordeaux. To Crowley it felt a lot like levelling up, taking the energy and sweet, sweet poison the wine supplied and absorbing it into his being. Already he felt the effects. His mind was… hazy. Beautifully chaotic. And he’d so far only drunk on bottle. The night was young.

“Pfff, floozy,” he replied, blinking a few times too many and almost losing his hold on the alcohol. Well, he wasn’t holding it, and he was currently floating. But if he were a human, he’d have tumbled. Crowley was a clumsy drunk. “’S not so bad.”

“You’re just turning perfectly good alcohol sour.” He was. Downside to this whole energy absorption thing, he guessed. The drink tasted foul afterwards, even to him.

“I am,” Crowley said, smiling wickedly. “What you gonna do ‘bout it?” He was levitating backwards, turned his head and startled at the speed of his steps. If he were human, he’d have bumped into the shelf. Crowley hiccupped.

“Careful,” Aziraphale said, almost without thinking. It amused Crowley to think that he frequently passed as human to his friend. As if a bump on his shoulder could hurt him anymore. It wasn’t the alcohol speaking, either, it was all Aziraphale. “Don’t hurt yourself.”

Crowley snorted loudly. “I did hurt myself,” he replied. “I am dead. Oops.” He did a clumsy and quite frankly embarrassing excuse of a backspin.

Aziraphale just rolled his eyes in response. “If you keep that up, you’ll die for a second time,” he murmured. He wasn’t nearly as buzzed as Crowley was, evidently. Most likely to do with whatever was causing him to skulk like a little baby. But Crowley couldn’t just outright _ask_ him what his problem was, no, that was too easy. Spirits weren’t exactly known for their communication skills.

Something seemed to have peaked Aziraphale’s interest, some fleeting thought. He kept looking at him all intense, and Crowley didn’t like it. There he went with that warm gaze again. Like there was something there, something more than comradery.

“You stop that,” he said, self-conscious. He could feel the booze draining out of him, desperately didn’t want the buzz to end yet.

“Stop what?” Aziraphale asked all innocent, as if he didn’t _know_. As if he wasn’t aware that his gaze seemed to burn into Crowley’s very being.

Crowley scoffed and turned gaze away, bore holes into the carpet. _Like you don’t know._ No being could be this thick, not even an angel. “Nothin’.”

“Crowley?” Aziraphale’s voice seemed almost hesitant. As if he didn’t want to ask whatever was plaguing his mind.

“Hmm?”

“How _does_ one go about… you know… murdering a ghost?”

Crowley blinked. Twice, then a third, then a fourth time. He felt like he was missing something, a fundamental step. He knew he should feel slightly alarmed, at edge even, but the residue of the alcohol was keeping it at bay. “If you, if you really wanna kill me for souring your alcohol then I say… Well, then I have to just say… Cheers.” He shrugged dramatically and bowed with all the grace of a drunkard, couldn’t help the stutter. “Be my guest. But I could beat your behind all the way back to heaven, let me tell ya.” He very clearly couldn’t.

Aziraphale didn’t call him out on his bluff, just smiled. “No, I didn’t… I didn’t mean it like that. You know how much I cherish our friendship.” Crowley felt hot all over. He wanted to scold himself, wanted to yell _‘Stop that, you’re turning a perfectly good, perfectly platonic 50 years long friendship into something it’s not’_ at himself. What a fool he was, even in death. “I was just wondering out loud.” Something in his eyes told Crowley that was bullshit.

He had no idea, not even the slightest clue, whatever persuaded him to say his next words, but he did it anyway. He took the plunge. “Well, burning my body’s a start,” he admitted frantically under his breath. He could’ve hit himself. Truth was, while he wasn’t particularly fond of his existence as a Poltergeist, he also was decidedly against finding out which side of the coin would be flipped for him. Heaven or hell. He knew very, very well, had a feeling in his gut, that luck wouldn’t be on his side. Maybe it was an aftermath of his life, a vague memory that just told him, loud and clear _‘ABORT’_. “But with your angelic might, you could just as easily squash my soul like a fly. Whoosh.” He imitated the crushing with his hand quite well, he thought.

He saw how uncomfortable that had made Aziraphale, almost like he’d forced him to swallow a lemon. He was frowning deeply. _Well, at least he’s vaguely conflicted about killing me. That’s a start._ He really needed to tell his thoughts to bugger off. They had no business being this sloppy. “Your body… You have a body?”

 _How strange this conversation must seem to a fella outside our window with no context,_ he thought. “Everyone has a body, silly.” He pointed at his friend accusingly. “So what, _you_ get a body, but _I_ don’t? That’s just unfair. Well, corpse more like, but my point still stands.” Aziraphale started eyeing him again. “Oh, I know what you’re about to ask me. _‘Where is your corpse, Crowley?’_ Well, gee, I don’t know, Angel. It’s not like I keep it on a leash. Presumably here.” Ghosts generally tended to haunt their final resting place, so the conclusion was fairly easy. He’d once or twice pondered if this place used to be a cemetery but decided against it very quickly. It didn’t seem like he’d be buried officially. Seemed too final, where his death left him feeling decidedly not. Maybe that was where all his anger came from, he couldn’t be sure.

“Presumably?” Aziraphale needled him on. “You can’t sense it?”

Crowley sighed. He needed more alcohol for this conversation, loads more, but he also was afraid what his loose tongue would let slip if he couldn’t control himself. “Obviously not,” he replied, motioning towards himself. “Otherwise I wouldn’t be in this predicament, would I?”

“Have you ever tried locating it?” There he went again with that stupid honesty. Tried? Of course he’d bloody well tried! But truth of the matter was, he was… Well, he was afraid. Afraid of what would happen to him once he’d found it, found himself. Would he remember his death? Or worse, his entire life? Would the then fixed discrepancy cause his spirit to dissipate completely? The risk was just too great. Ghosts weren’t afforded any closure, not if they wanted to stay on Earth.

He could have voice all this, of that he was absolutely sure. Aziraphale wouldn’t judge him on his fears, would most likely assure him or try to help him in some way. Which was exactly what he didn’t want, so he stayed silent. And instead chose to do what he so often did: Denial. Diversion of the subject.

“Sooo,” he started, smacking his lips together obnoxiously. He was half leaning on the opposite couch, levitating, to appear relaxed. He was far from it. “Who was that fella you forbade me from meeting the other day? Did you have a lady visit?” Crowley tried really hard not to let his jealousy sound through, it wasn’t fair to his friend. It was just a universal truth that Aziraphale had everyone, inside the store as well as outside, a multitude of potential friendships and connections and jokes and laughter and friendly banter. Crowley only had Aziraphale, and the rats. Which was just fine by him, he disliked people and was usually an introvert. But that didn’t make it sting less.

Aziraphale didn’t blush, thank God. He didn’t give any sign that he _had_ had a more than friendly visit, which was just fine with Crowley. He didn’t know what he’d have done if he had. But no, Aziraphale didn’t look found out. Instead, he looked sad, which was even more troubling.

“Oh,” he said, sighed and looked away. A bad sign. “You don’t want to know.”

That was odd. Aziraphale was usually an over sharer. “Why? Angel business?” he guessed.

Aziraphale nodded. Hmm. “It’s terrible. Terrible business.”

That intrigued him. He’d always liked those more than any happy ones. And because he felt that his stupid angel needed to talk this off his chest, he floated closer, closer towards the table and the last full glass of wine there. He desperately craved it but decided against it. “Tell me,” he said with all the honesty he could muster. Then he let his telekinetic hand reach out and slowly, gingerly touched the feet of the table. It was a small rounded one, pathetically useless. He let it slide its way from one couch towards another. Its feet were screeching on the ground while he did his magic. “Tell me,” he repeated his earlier words. “Tell me and drink. You need it more than me.”

The angel looked startled, even dumbfounded at the act of compassion. As if no one had ever told him before to air out his frustrations or doubts. Aziraphale regarded him, seemed to take all of him in, every molecule, for a long minute. It felt scrutinizing under his gaze, but Crowley stood his ground and prevailed. No matter how uncomfortable it made him. “What do you know about the end of days?” the angel asked then.

Crowley frowned. “You mean the Apocalypse? The Reckoning? Curtains closing on the world? Book of Revelation thing?” Not a lot, truth be told. He wasn’t an avid church goer. Well, he couldn’t be, couldn’t leave the house, but even if he had the ability to.

Aziraphale nodded. “That’s the one.”

Crowley hummed and then shrugged. “Not a lot. Nothing, really.” He regarded Aziraphale for second. “Why don’t you tell me about it?”

And so Aziraphale did. He told him about the Apocalypse, the plans, machinations, the different roles everyone played in the end. He told him about his role, about his aversion towards the whole thing. Confessed his love for humanity, which Crowley couldn’t relate to but admired. How he longed to rewrite the ending. Or just throw out the whole damn book.

When it was all over, both of them felt drained. Well and truly drained. Crowley especially, for he’d freely given up his last alcohol of the night. He felt positively selfless. (Take that, condemnation to hell.)

“So… the Oceans?”

“Yes.”

“… Will boil over?”

“Hmm.”

Crowley was contemplating. “And the fishes? What about whales? What will you do with the whales?” _Is this why you hate shellfish?_

“They’ll die. All of them.” Aziraphale looked sad.

“Bullocks, you can’t kill whales! Look at the size of the brains they’ve got! Gigantic brains! You have to keep them around, right?” Humans he understood, but animals? What had wildlife ever done to deserve a gruesome death like this?

“God’s plan.” _‘Ineffable’_ was hanging in the air but wasn’t said out loud. He just shrugged, defeated at the prospect of being the one to carry out all this death. Crowley felt for him instantly. He’d never felt such an emotion before, it was strange and yet not entirely unwelcome. _‘Stop it,’_ he thought. _‘You’ll turn me into a sociable bloke.’_

“Shit,” he said, just because he felt it warranted saying. Aziraphale ended up agreeing with him whole heartedly.

It was midnight. The church bell chimed in the far distance. Londoners were stepping out of their houses to bang their pots and pans together in celebration of a new year. Everyone was happy. Well, everyone except a ghost and an angel in their own little corner of London, who’d drunk themselves into a Great Depression. Managed to ruin their own small celebration.

Crowley sighed and stretched his limbs, let his senses touch the cutlery in the kitchen and let it shake loudly to join their neighbours. He distantly heard one of them shatter. Ah, well. “Happy New Year,” Crowley said, with all the enthusiasm he felt, which wasn’t much. “Another year of mischief. Yay.”

“Happy new decade,” Aziraphale said just as cheerily. He decidedly made no snarky comment about the porcelain rattling from earlier, although he must’ve felt them break.

Crowley just scoffed at him. “Bullocks it’s not the new decade,” he said, offended. “It wasn’t in the newspaper for today.”

“Do you only believe whatever is written in the papers?” Aziraphale gave him a judging look, but nonetheless looked amused. Happier than earlier, at least. It made Crowley grin slightly to see his idiot angel’s mood being lifted somewhat. His grin to anyone else looked mischievous. Funny how differently one could interpret such a simple gesture, depending on where they stood.

“Yes,” he admitted cheekily. He was being annoying on purpose. “The papers don’t lie.”

“I’m an ethereal being, Crowley. I was there when Adam and Eve left the garden of Eden. Believe me when I say this: It’s the start of a new decade.”

“Hmmm,” Crowley contemplated and let the sounds from outside, all that hollering and celebrating and honking, wash over him for a minute. “Seems fake, but alright.”

Aziraphale just scoffed at him and almost threw a pillow at him before he realized that it would’ve gone straight through. Crowley just grinned at him and leaned back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact brits in 1899/1900 truly didn't think that it was the start of the 20th century. (I know, what is maths? We don't know) they only started believing it in 1901, when the papers announced it.   
> Next stop in this series: Some truly thick, deep, nice slice of home of sexual romantic behaviour.


End file.
